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Copyright N°. 







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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/randomversesOOharp 



RANDOM VERSES 



RANDOM VERSES 



BY 

HENRY H. HARPER 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 



BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS 
MCMXIV 



1^" { %3 



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COPYRIGHT 1914 BY 
HENRY H. HARPER 



dec 14 law 

©CU387935 



WITH HUMBLE APOLOGIES TO 

CALLIOPE AND OTHER MUSES 

WHO INHABIT THE PRECINCTS 

OF PARNASSUS 



THE TROUBLES OF OUR UNCLE 

SAM 

Rare wisdom marked our fathers' toil 

Who sought with freedom's right 
To crown a free-born infant's soil — 

Exempt from Sovereign's might. 
When Uncle Sam, in cradle robes, 
Nursed at the breast of liberty, 
He little dreamed what cares and woes 
Awaited his maturity. 

At first with slow, unsteady tread 
Young Samuel groped his way. 

He shed his outward coat of red, 
And dressed in blue and gray; 

But when the boy to manhood grew 

With long gray whiskers on his chin, 

His colors didn't harmonize, 

So strife and Civil War set in. 

[ 7] 



His homespun garments wide were rent — 

Alas for Uncle's cheer! 
His children seemed on trouble bent — 

He mourned o'er many a bier. 
The members of his mixed household 
He found it hard to unify; 
And thus his troubles, once begun, 
Have never ceased to multiply. 

His gates were opened wide to all 

From every foreign shore, 
And millions answered to the call, 

Then echoed back for more. 
And thus his infant progeny 
Increased and more discordant grew, 
Until his homogeneous band 
Became a heterogeneous crew. 

His workmen wail with all their might, 

Rehearsing varied ills; 
And when they ballot for their "right" 

They vote against their mills. 
The cause from whence their hunger comes 
Then simple-mindedly they seek, 
And wonder why their factories 
Are closed three days of every week. 

[ 8 ] 



Our vaunted freedom, once proclaimed 

By our colonial sires, 
Has nurtured strife and vice, inflamed 

By greed and vain desires. 
The land of cradled liberty — 
Where U. S. sought his brood to raise 
Becomes a common feeding ground 
Where Elephants and Donkeys graze. 

On everything that profit yields 
These pesky brutes will feed: 
The factories, railroads, mills and fields 

Are victims of their greed. 
These industries which once were owned 
By prosperous men of honored name 
Are turned into a sporting park 
Where politicians hunt for fame. 

The servants of his vast household 

Employ his time and wealth 
In persecuting young and old 

Accused of "business stealth." 
His thrifty children pay the toll 
That's spent to kill their enterprise, 
And feel the whip and sting of law 
Responsive to their mournful cries. 

[ 9 ] 



Alas for Uncle's peace of mind! 

His troubles grow apace; 
His bank account is 'way behind, 

And care-lines mark his face. 
His hapless children cry for bread, 
But when they reach the tradesman's shop 
This dismal placard greets their eyes: 
"No bread to sell, no wood to chop!" 

And when into his field he strays 

To seek a breath of air 
He finds that melancholy days 

Are present, even there. 
The Jack-ass and the Elephant 
Repose serenely in the shade 
Wondering why the grass w T on't grow 
Upon the beaten paths they made. 

There's one sure cure for all his ills — 

This Uncle Sam of ours — 
And this would open all the mills 

In less than twenty hours; 
If fair Columbia he'd wed 
And o'er his household give her sway, 
His former troubles then would be 
As starlight to a sunny day. 

[ 10] 



THE CONSCIENCE OF 
DEACON LEE 

My name with letters three I spell 
Two e's preceded by an L — 

They call me Deacon Lee 
Because I've chiefly spent my life 
Eschewing evil ways and strife 

To keep my conscience free. 

My first adventure was in trade 
Wherein a fortune soon I made — 

But that was years ago, 
When politics was filled with grime 
And great success was not a crime 

With heinousness aglow. 

Ten thousand men I once employed 
And happy times they all enjoyed 

Amid prosperity. 
When lo! some politician found 
My business plans did not abound 

With Christian piety! 

[ " ] 



u 



All right," said I, "I've no desire 
To stir up any Christian's ire. 

Though business be my pride, 
And though ten thousand feel the sting, 
My conscience — tender-hearted thing! 

In rectitude must bide." 

A goodly while I searched in vain 
For some vocation free from stain 

Where profits would be nil; 
But everything, to my disgust, 
Was owned by some gigantic trust, 

With overflowing till. 

I tried collecting prints and books, 
And fell an easy prey to crooks. 

I joined a hobby club ; 
But when my fate got noised about 
They raised the deus and kicked me out— 

They said I was a cub\ 

To poetry I turned my hand 

And praised the laws of this free land; 

But critics only scofft 
And said such silly sentiments 
Gave undisputed evidence 

Of brains both scant and soft. 

[ 12 ] 



I wrote a novel, free from vice, 
To sell at half the usual price 

To meet the public need; 
But couldn't sell a single book, 
Because, they said, I quite mistook 

The taste of those who read. 

At length an altruistic fake 
Besought me his advice to take 

And get some land to till. 
"If pleasure be your bent," said he, 
"A gentleman farmer you should be; 

For there you'll get your fill." 

He told me that the farmer's life 
Is free from care and void of strife; 

That every plant and bird 
Would bloom and sing with gratitude 
And silence every fretful mood 

That business cares bestirred. 

He said there's luck in honey bees, 
That money's made on apple trees, 

That chickens pay you well. 
The villain! how he lied! He must 
Have owned stock in a chicken trust, 

Or had a farm to sell. 

[ 13 ] 



I bought a farm and tried it out. 
I suffered not with chronic gout, — 

But other ailments worse, — 
My conscience smote me when I killed 
The pests with which the place was filled — 

It drew upon my purse. 

My farm I sold for half its cost — 
Reckoning not the time I lost 

In righting bugs and pests. 
The crime that broke my tender heart 
And made my guilty conscience smart 

Was robbing chickens' nests. 

The day that I got back to town 
I met an ambulating clown 

Who hailed me on the street 
With quip and jest anent the farm; 
"What fool," he asked with feigned alarm, 

"Has bought your country seat!" 

He said that farming was too tame; 
That I should learn a high-toned game 

And join a Country Club. 
In golf, he said, I'd make a hit, 
So off I went and bought a kit, 

And there began the rub. 

[ 14] 



A caddy on the links I found, 

And asked him what he'd charge a round - 

"It's fifty cents," said he; 
But when my golfing form he saw, 
And heard me cuss, he said, "Haw, haw! 

I'll caddy for ye free!" 

And when the final hole was played 
We figured up the score I made — 

It seemed to be a joke ; 
For when the total sum I read 
The caddy smiled and calmly said: 

"Ye must of missed a stroke." 

I played the game a month or more 
And never made a decent score. 

"You're off your game!" they cried. 
My ball found every ditch and rut, — 
I couldn't drive, approach or put, 

No matter how I tried. 

The balls that cost me fifty cents 
Would lose themselves behind the fence 

Or in some grassy plot, 
And every time the game I'd play 
My conscience taxed me double pay 

For all the fun I got. 

[ 15 ] 



"No more for me this costly hoax 
That spoils the minds of gentle folks; 

I'll try some other game." 
I sought to teach religious views, 
But only preached to empty pews, 

For not a sinner came! 

I couldn't do a cussed thing 

That fame unto my name would bring 

Or any pleasure give. 
Salvation Army ranks I tried, 
But even there I was denied — 

So what's the use to live! 

I tried committing suicide 
And took a pint of cyanide, 

But luck was just the same ; 
The devil said he had no use 
For such a silly, worthless goose, 

So back to earth I came. 

Now having vainly tried all things 

To keep my conscience free from stings, 

I made a public speech 
And pledged my life (but not my cash) 
That every pesky trust I'd smash 

That came within my reach. 

[ 16] 



The public howled and danced with joy, 
And yelled, "Hurray for you! Good boy! 

You're just the man we need. 
The politicians we have had 
Are all protective tariff mad, 

Or else they've gone to seed. 

"We want a man who'll make things hum 
And put big business on the bum 

With great celerity; 
To make the halls of Congress ring 
And interfere with everything 

That spells prosperity." 

Success in politics, I find, 

Is gained by being true and kind, 

And making moral codes 
For overweening trusts that rob 
The lazy loafer of his job 

By enterprising modes. 

Election morn dawned clear and bright; 
I won the great and glorious fight 

For "honest government." 
With fiery speeches by the score 
To right the people's wrongs galore, 

To Washington I went. 

[ 17] 



And now I hope I'll never die; 
For all the rich men I defy 

And tell them what to do. 
Of Satan's wrath I'm not afraid, 
Because he loves the laws I've made — 

Indeed, he loves me too. 

In politics I've found my goal; 
Now sleeps my conscientious soul 

In realms of peace sublime; 
My heart is filled with gratitude, 
I live upon the finest food, 

And have a corking time. 

P. S. And the public pays the bills! 



[ 18 ] 



THE "WAR-TAX" 

The baker to the banker sent 

A bumping baker's bill; 
The banker to the baker went, 

That baker man to kill; 
But when he asked him why he charged 
So much for buns, the baker said : 
"The war-tax hits me very hard, — 
I had to raise the price of bread." 

The tailor to the banker sent 

(With supplicating note), 
A bill for patching up a rent 

In Mr. Banker's coat. 
The banker cried, "I'm robbed again! 
The sum would buy a ready-made!" 
"Not so," the tailor man replied, 
"War tax, you know, must now be paid." 

[ 19] 



The butcher to the banker sent 
A four weeks' bill for meat — 
On which he credited the rent 

Due on his business seat. 
"Heigh-ho! how's this!" the banker cried, 
"Your rent don't pay my butcher's bill!" 
"Not this month, Bill," the butcher said, 
"The war tax hit the sausage mill." 

"War tax, bedamned!" the banker shouts, 
"You fellows are all wrong; 

We're not with anyone at outs — 
Why give us such a song? 

You're all obsessed with this idea; 

It's only a sham make-belief : 

The ship of state is on the rocks ; 

This 'War Tax' is for her relief. 

"The captain, mates and all the crew 

Just while the days away, 
And lounge about and smoke and chew 

Till time to draw their pay. 
Then direful outcries rend the air 
And wake the watchmen on the land — 
" We're stranded here! We've run amuck 
For God's sake, won't you lend a hand?' " 

[ 20] 



The butcher scowled, and seemed to think; 

Then shouted he aloud — 
"I'd let the cusses stay and sink; 

They're a hard, reckless crowd. 
If they don't know the rocks and shoals, 
They have no business sailing boats. 
Now when they get themselves in wrong, 
They holler 'help' — and we're the goats." 

"That may be so," said banker Drew, 

"But how about our freight? 
If woe betide that spendthrift crew, 

No less will be our fate. 
The precious cargo in their care 
Is not from loss or theft insured. 
They get the ride — we pay the fare, 
And lose the cargo, ship and steward." 

The banker paid the bills he owed, 

Without another kick; 
Then to his borrowers he showed 

A clever business trick. 
Their interest rates increased by half — 
How they did howl, and "Robber!" cry! 
He calmly stroked his chin and said, 
"War tax, you know, makes money high." 

[ 21 ] 



THE BIBLIOPHILE'S EMPYREAL 
DREAM 

There's many a speculation rife 
About empyreal scenes of life 

And treasures in the skies, 
And many creeds of doubtful worth 

Do learned men devise 
To teach us how to live and die 

That we again may rise. 

But ne'er can mortal man unfold 

The mysteries which the grave doth hold. 

No soul has e'er returned 
To earth with news from Pluto's Hall; 

And saints who crowns have earned 
To glorify their names in Heaven 

Are there fore'er interned. 

The wisest men content must be 
Until their souls from earth set free 

Shall seek their final goal. 
On Freedom's wing to heights unknown 

Ascends the righteous soul — 
No Charon's Ferryboat from it 

Collects a final toll! 

[ 22 ] 



But wrongs committed in the flesh 
Will hold the soul in deadly mesh 

Until the heavens fall, 
And hours like ages shall appear 

To those beyond recall 
Among the ghoulish shades and imps 

In Pluto's massive Hall. 

The usurer his place shall find 
Among the heathens of his kind 

In Satan's hardest bed. 
The victims of his earthly greed 

Who once he thought were dead 
Will make him dream of discontent - 

Of coals upon his head. 

Enshrouded in eternal night, 

He'll long for some phosphoric light 

To drive away the ghosts. 
And in his hours of broken sleep 

Amid these gruesome hosts 
He'll dream of rents and int'rest due 

While on the grill he roasts. 

The bibliophile whose life is spent 
In righteous acts and good intent — 
To every man a friend — 

[ 23 ] 



Will find that dreams of endless bliss 

Await his journey's end; 
Where with his gathered kin he'll hear 

The gladsome praise ascend. 

Among his books, in that dream-land, 
This happy saint shall proudly stand 

In unalloyed delight; 
While jealous hosts with beaming eyes 

Will marvel at the sight 
Of untrimmed books in grand array 

Displayed in heavenly light. 

They'll wish that they with equal zest 
And bookish instincts had been blest; 

That while in earthly state 
They too had wisely garnered stores 

Of gems with which to bait 
The hooks of Envy for the saints 

Within the Pearly Gate. 



[ 24] 



WAR 

The wheels of progress backward roll, 
And war with all its sacred toll 

Fills every human breast 
With morbid thoughts and dreadful fears. 

The war-lord's iron chest, 
Replenished at the public cost, 
In lieu of guaranteeing peace 

Becomes the nation's pest. 

The war god in a peaceful age 

With blood inscribes on history's page 

A chapter of disgrace: 
A warrior prince takes up his sword 

And then with upturned face 
Bespeaks Jehovah's helping hand 
To guide him in the glorious work 

Of trampling down a race. 

[ 25 ] 



Assured of Providential aid 

He bids his henchmen start the raid, 

While he remains to pray 
And decorate with iron cross 

The sons he sent away. 
But naught must stay their evil hand, 
No treaty rights must they respect, 

Nor nations' laws obey. 

The sacred shrines and stately domes 
And noncombatants , peaceful homes 

Are plied with torch and shell — 
Will God condone the vandal act 

By which these temples fell, 
Because they stood athwart the way 
That led through towns on neutral soil 

To some great citadel? 

The savage from his jungle shade 
Looks out upon this wierd parade 

And marvels at the sight 
Of marching hordes with torch and sword 

Who plunder day and night 
And desecrate their neighbors' homes 
And burn their sacred altars down 

To demonstrate their might. 

[ 26] 



The neutral nations stand aghast 
And wonder how such scenes can last 

In this enlightened age; 
And who will pay the reckoning 

Of such a bold outrage 
Upon the lives and homes and lands 
Of helpless victims, when the crime 

Has reached its final stage. 

But gods of vengeance lie in wait, 
And when the verdict on their slate 

Proclaims the awful toll 
A heavy tax will be assessed 

Upon the guilty soul 
Who engineered the murderous hosts 
That ravaged peaceful homes and lands 

To gain their coveted goal. 

A hapless wretch, a homeless lad, 
In squalor bred, with hunger mad, 

Steals but a crust or bone, 
And Justice weeps, and cries aloud 

From her exalted throne: 
"Attire the wretch in stripes and chains 
And cast him in a dungeon cell! 

For bread, give him a stone!" 

[ 27] 



A haughty prince with crowned head, 
Of Teuton blood, on manna fed, 

A million lives destroys ; 
He burns the temples of the gods 

And stirs the world with noise — 
While Justice, blinded by the glare 
Sits meekly in her easy chair 

With tightly bandaged eyes. 



[ 28 ] 



FAME 

I sauntered here and there about 

Within the vast white Hall of Fame, 

And as with staring eyes I read 

Inscriptions underneath each name, 

And gazed at naked statues there 

Of valorous men with genius fraught, 

I trembled not that my nude form 

In marble wrought would e'er be sought 

For curious crowds to gaze upon. 



Few there be who fame inherit, 
Thousands vainly strive to win it, 
Some acquire, but never use it, 
Others find, and then they lose it; 
Egotistic men abuse it, 
Roosevelt gunned until he shot it. 
Did ever mortal man refuse it? 
But why the thunderation is it 
That wives of writers never prize it? 

[ 29] 



BROTHERHOOD 

From whence I came upon this sphere of mould 
Or what my destination is beyond, 
Are secrets locked within a sacred fold 
Whose door to mortal key will ne'er respond. 

Nor would I waste my Master's precious time 
In seeking these forbidden things to learn. 
May God preserve me from the shiftless crime 
Of meddling in affairs of His concern. 

'Tis better, far, that I should seek to know 
What work befits the talents I employ — 
That on some hapless soul I may bestow 
A kindly act that gives some earthly joy. 

For everyone, our God some task has planned, 
And be our given bounty large or small, 
In readiness He bids his soldiers stand, 
Prepared for quick response to duty's call. 

The tares and pests that in the garden thrive, 
By faithful husbandmen are weeded out; 
The woes and cares with which God's people strive, 
By Christian brotherhood are put to rout. 

[ 30] 



As warming sunbeams cheer a wintry morn, 
So friendly smiles and tender words will bring 
Faith, hope and cheer to human hearts forlorn, 
And thus cheat sorrow of its wonted sting. 

Beware, all men, the pious hypocrite 
Who masks himself with sanctimonious face! 
Who talks of naught but faith and Holy Writ, 
And seeks to purify the human race. 

His ostentatious prayers his grief express, 
That all mankind in sinful ways persist; 
Yet no ill-fated brother's sore distress 
Will aid or sympathy from him enlist. 

The man who shares his meagre crust of bread 
With some poor waif bereft of friend and home, 
Will reap a richer blessing on his head 
Than he whose name adorns a gilded dome. 



[ 31 ] 



THE SOUL'S RESPONSE 

With tear-dimmed eyes and heavy heart 
I look upon thy placid face 

Bereft of lifelike hue: 
Thine eyes are closed, thy voice is still, 
And as I view those silent lips 

Sealed in eternal sleep 
I ponder Fate's unkind decree 
That you and I so soon must part! 

But as I raise my weeping eyes 
To Him who gave thy love to me 

And plead for strength to bear 
The burden that thy loss entails, 
He seems to bid me turn again 

And view thy sweet repose, — 
When lo! upon thy lips there plays 
A smile reflected from the skies. 

A gleam of heavenly light I see 
Transmitted through thy peaceful face — 

My heart with hope revives! 
My soul awakes! My grief subsides! 
Why, loved one, should I seek to bring 

Thee back to earthly cares, 
When Death is but a tranquil dream 
In which thou hast preceded me! 

[ 32 ] 



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